Tender Loving Care
by ardavenport
Summary: The Enterprise is stricken with a pesky virus, including it's captain. But while tending to the sick, Dr. Crusher finds that she needs a little tender loving care, too. Nothing but a Picard/Crusher hurt/comfort wallow.
1. Chapter 1

**TENDER LOVING CARE**

by ardavenport

* * *

**- - - Part 1**

"Huh?"

Picard woke up with a start.

"Uuuhh."

His nausea woke up, too, creeping up from his stomach. But it wasn't as bad as it had been yesterday . . . he thought. Lying under rumpled covers in the dim, maybe morning/maybe evening light of his cabin's bedroom, Picard felt weary and grimy in the same bedclothes that he'd worn the day before. It was only a two-day illness, right? Just a mutated, Maluvian stomach virus that a third of the ship was down with, right?

"Uuuuuhhhh." He still had another day to go through.

Picard tugged the covers straight . . . and found an arm lying across his middle. He turned his head.

A body faced him . . . a profile . . . Beverly Crusher lay at his side, on the bed. Picard froze and stared. Had something happened besides his illness? He couldn't think of anything. She'd visited him a couple times, smugly well and healthy. The captain's illness hadn't merited a spot in an overcrowded Sickbay, so the doctor had come to him. On her last visit he'd thought that she had not looked nearly so cheerful and self-satisfied as she had earlier. He asked the computer for the time: 06:12.

"Computer, lights."

He squinted when the lights came up, reminding him of why he'd lay in the dark most of the previous day. He carefully lifted Crusher's arm and turned on his side to face her. He touched the side of her face; it felt warm.

"Beverly . . . "

" . . . Beverly?"

Crusher groaned. She did not want to wake up. She did not want to move. She was just barely comfortable now and any change at all would ruin that delicate balance. Someone was touching her.

"Beverly?"

Oh no. She opened her eyes. There was Jean-Luc Picard, lying next to her. In his pajamas.

Oh no. She moved and then shut her eyes, put her hand to her forehead and ran into his wrist. She knew she had a temperature.

What were you thinking last night? She looked up at Picard, who was propped up on his elbow. He'd turned the room lights on and they were too bright.

"I don't want you to take this wrong, Beverly. But what are you doing here?"

Embarrassment churned her stomach along with the illness. She was in her uniform, wearing her blue medical jacket. His was shirtless under the covers.

"I-I'm sorry," she started to rise and then thought better of it. "I came last night when you were asleep. I thought I was starting to feel ill, but I wanted to stop by before I . . . " she paused. "Well, when I sat down, I thought I was going to faint. So, I . . . "

"Made yourself at home?" he finished.

"Uuh." She closed her eyes, put her hand to her forehead again. His hand moved to her shoulder.

"Well, at least stay long enough to get your strength back," she heard him say.

Crusher didn't really want to stay, particularly in his bed, when she was feeling so ill. But she didn't feel like getting up and fainting or worse, either. She lay quietly, hoping that as her body woke up, she might start feeling well enough get up. After long minutes, she started feeling less unwell, but no more energetic.

Picard did get up. She opened her eyes to see his back facing her. Wearing just a pair of gray, short pants, he sat on the edge of the bed. Then with a grunt, he launched himself upward and unsteadily toward the lavatory.

Crusher closed her eyes. But it was too late. She had to go now.

When Picard came out, he noisily opened drawers. Then she heard him returning to the bed, and a blanket covered her half way. She wasn't really cold, but it felt nicer to be covered anyway. He tugged at her jacket.

"Hey," he said softly, nudging her to a half sitting position. She leaned heavily on him, her hair clinging to his shoulder as he slid her jacket down off her.

_I'm not going to stay._

He'd got the jacket down to her elbows and now had it hung up on her arms.

_You don't undress many people, do you Jean-Luc?_

Her head still resting on his shoulder, she tried to help, but that only made it worse with both their hands getting trapped in the folds of the sleeves.

"Ow!" She lifted her head when he tugged her arm backward.

"Sorry," he apologized, steadying her shoulders. She leaned on him again, taking deep breaths, her cheek next to the bare skin of his neck. She hadn't really done anything, but she was already tired of sitting up. Picard slowly, carefully pulled the jacket the rest of the way off. She gratefully lay down again. He covered her.  
"Picard to Sickbay."

Oh no. But he'd already made the call to Sickbay. A few moments later, after Picard had put on a long gray bathrobe, Doctor Selar entered. Vulcans were immune to this Maluvian stomach virus. A model of logical calm and tact, Selar did her examination, scanned Crusher and delivered her diagnosis and treatment. It was exactly the same sentence that Crusher had pronounced on Captain Picard, and dozens of others, the day before. Not a word was spoken about where they were or whose bed the chief medical officer was lying in. Selar gave her a shot of durhalin for the nausea, and CHW-35 to suppress the virus. Crusher imagined that Selar might have raised an eyebrow about where they were-she kept her eyes closed during the procedure-but nothing more than that.

After Selar was gone, Crusher heard Picard-had he been standing there while Selar looked her over?-go into the main room. Was he going to take the sofa? All gallantry aside, Crusher thought that would be ridiculous. If two friends couldn't peacefully share a sick bed together no, it wasn't a bed they were sharing she reconsidered. It was this damn virus. She turned her head toward the lavatory, once again reminding herself that she really was going to have to pry herself up anyway.

Picard reached the replicator and gave his order to the computer; it was the same thing Doctor Crusher had made him take the previous day and the same thing that Selar had just proscribed. He rested his head against the wall as the tray materialized. He really was feeling better-lethargic, but the fever flush and nausea were nearly gone. After seeing to Crusher, Selar had scanned him, and pronounced him unfit for duty, but improved as expected.

He reached down into the replicator slot and picked up one of the glasses. A simple glass of teska-orange juice-proscribed by Selar. It felt good going down.

Carrying the tray back to the bedroom, Picard played with the idea of putting on a uniform and going up to the bridge. With all of the medical personnel-and now Doctor Crusher-either hopelessly busy or ill, who would notice?

Picard stood in the doorway. Beverly Crusher was gone. The crumpled gray blanket at the foot of the bed told him where she'd been, and the closed lavatory door told him where she probably was. He put the tray down on the nightstand and pushed back a few long, drooping leaves from the row of potted plants between the bed pillows and the small, narrow view port on the slanted wall behind them.

Going over to the drawers by the lavatory door, he rummaged through them again. None of the shirts were nearly long enough. There was a light, knee-length jacket that didn't close in the front, a very short bathrobe, a heavy Acturan smock and pants that he'd worn once two years ago, and a straight-cut, green Balzonian kirtle with a long, yellow, tasseled strip of cloth attached at the neck and hanging down in front. It was the decorative overgarment for a Balzonian riding outfit.

The lavatory door opened and Beverly Crusher stood, leaning on the door frame. He presented his findings and she shook her head.

"Jean-Luc, I can't stay. I just need to rest a few minutes . . ." she said, while wondering what had happened to her casual thoughts about two friends sharing a sick bed. She closed her eyes and took a deep breath to quell a wave of lightheadedness.

"Beverly." He touched her shoulder. "If you feel anything like what I did yesterday, then I don't think you'll make it to your quarters unless someone caries you. Unless you'd like to take the transporter."

"No," she answered scrunching her face up in distaste. Transporting with nausea was really horrible. She opened her eyes and turned her head toward the offerings on the bureau. She stretched out an arm and pulled tan cloth away from the pile. It was a pair of pants. She held them in front of her own womanly hips that would obviously not fit into them. She let them drop to the floor and pulled more selections to her. The bathrobe was much too short. Does he really wear this? The long shirt didn't close in the front.

_Bet you'd like to see me in that, Jean-Luc._

The long green thing was acceptable except . . .

Rrrrriiiiiiiiiiippppppp! The strip of yellow tassels came away easily. It looked as if it had been sew on by hand. She certainly wouldn't have been able to get them off if she'd needed to exert much strength. Picard's expression was one of shock as she turned back to the lavatory. Hand made clothing was uncommon and valuable in a technological world of replicated necessities. She didn't care. Tough.

Crusher leaned on the closed door and thought about how nice it would be to just curl up in a corner right then. She touched the clasp at the back of the collar of her uniform and immediately the seam in back loosened and she pulled it apart. She slid the uniform off her shoulders and down past her hips. She was down past her knees before she realized that she hadn't taken her boots off.

Grunting she sat down on the carpeted floor and making too much noise. A knock at the door answered her and Picard asked if she was all right.

"I'm fine!" she shouted back, glaring up at the sink and the mirror above it. She tugged a boot off and thought about how nice a hot bath would be. She pulled the other boot and the socks off and tossed them away. Then she rested her arms on her knees and put her head down and thought about not throwing up. The standard medication for the nausea was durhalin; she'd been giving it to dozens of people the previous day. But the shot Selar had given her didn't work nearly so well for patients who insisted on getting up.

After a moment's rest, she freed her ankles from her uniform and picked up the green thing from where she'd dropped it. The material was smooth and light, but she sniffed it-it smelled stale, not unclean, just as if it had been lying in the drawer next to Jean-Luc Picard's other clothes for a couple of years. She pulled it on over her head, tugging it down around her body. Then she tried standing up. And was too noisy again.

"I'm all right." she answered to Picard's knock, but not as loudly as before. Leaning against the counter, she reached out and unlocked the door.

"Beverly?" Picard paused in the doorway before entering and putting an arm around her. He touched her forehead, warm against the skin of the back of his hand.

"Come on." He guided her out of the lavatory and back to the bed.

Crusher lay down. Her bout of nausea fading considerably as soon as she curled up on her side, her nose pressed into the pillow. He'd changed the sheets. He covered her, and then sat down on the bed.

"Hey," she heard him say, his hand on her shoulder. She opened her eyes. He was holding a glass with something pink in it.

"Oh no," she groaned, turning over, away from him, dragging the sheets and blanket with her.

"Hey, hey." He gently turned her back toward him. "Having trouble taking your own medicine, Doctor?" His hand slid behind her back, helping her to sit up. He's getting back at me for yesterday. She grimaced at the glass of cherry-flavored, nutritionally balanced, Sickbay pseudo-milkshake. She downed the first swallow with her head pressed against his shoulder.

When she'd finished, he put the empty glass down on the nightstand and let her back down to the pillow. He pulled the blanket up over her and briefly touched her flushed cheek. He looked down on her for long minutes, until he thought she was asleep . . .

"Are you going to sit there all morning?" Crusher opened her eyes a crack.

"I'm sorry, I didn't mean disturb you." He began to rise, but her hand on his leg stopped him.

"Where are you going?"

"Oh, um, I thought I'd . . . " Where was he going? He really did feel like lying down, the lingering symptoms of his own stomach virus still with him. But he wasn't so tired that it outweighed his emotions about lying down next to Beverly Crusher. " . . . I'd, ah, take a shower."

"Um." She closed her eyes again, accepting his excuse.

He got up and went to the lavatory. What was he afraid of? he asked himself as he stripped and got into the shower. A string of embarrassing teenage memories played across his mind. He closed his eyes and swayed, the hot water spraying down on him made him flush and dizzy. He ordered the computer to lower the temperature 5oC.

_Stop it._ He clamped down on his stray thoughts. They were both long past that stage of life and nothing was going to happen.

He got out of the shower and dried himself with a towel. He was halfway out the door before he remembered who was in the bed and hastily wrapped the towel about his waist. He retrieved fresh pajamas from the dresser and retreated to the lavatory again.

Crusher hadn't moved when he came out. He carefully sat down on the other side of the bed and slid his legs under the blanket. She didn't stir. Trying not to jostle the bed, he settled himself on the pillows. If Crusher felt as ill as he had the previous day, then any type of motion would only aggravate it. And he had to admit to himself that it felt good to lie down. Having done nothing more strenuous than take a shower, he felt as if he'd been exercising for hours. His face felt warm and he wondered if his temperature was going up again.

"Computer, turn down the lights." The room lights dimmed. It was morning, but it could have just as easily been evening in the ship's artificial environment. He looked to where Beverly Crusher lay, a dark outline of another person lying next to him. They lay close enough to touch, but apart. He wanted to touch her. He wanted . . . to be closer. He could have stretched out his hand and brushed his hand against her, but he didn't. He closed his eyes. It was useless pursuing that line of thought. He had said all her had to her about it and it would not go any further until, or unless, Beverly Crusher chose to let it. He dozed in the dark, listening to the sound of her breathing and half dreaming that they lay closer together.

* * *

**- - - End Part 1**


	2. Chapter 2

**TENDER LOVING CARE**

by ardavenport

* * *

**- - - Part 2**

Alissa Ogawa tidied a wisp of black hair, strayed from her bun, and wondered if she'd quite recovered from the Maluvian virus, but one look at Romeo Tuvas, on the biobed she stood over reminded her that she had. I don't feel that bad anymore.

Ogawa finished her check on Geordi LaForge's vital signs at the biobed on her other side. He wasn't nearly as ill or as dehydrated as Tuvas, but the engineer couldn't stand wearing his VISOR-at least not without throwing up-while he was ill. Totally blind without his vision prosthetic, LaForge had to endure his illness in Sickbay. Nurse Ogawa went to the next biobed and checked the readings there. Mott, the barber. At least he was sleeping. Ogawa and Nurse Ketchill had agreed that he had been their most dramatic and verbose patient.

Another wisp of hair tickled her neck, having come loose from the bun. She hadn't been very careful tying it up that morning and she didn't want to stop to fix it. The next biobed had a twelve year-old girl who asked for a glass of water. Ogawa got it for her. There were just too many patients. As soon as Selar had cleared her for duty, she'd gone right to work, and with half the Sickbay staff, including Doctor Crusher, down with the virus, there was plenty of it. Ogawa wondered how her superior was doing. So did Nurse Ketchill. And some of the other medical staff, but not too many . . . yet. It wasn't any secret about where the chief medical officer was, but there was plenty of speculation about what it meant . . . when they had time to stop and talk about it.

The next biobed held a woman who had fainted down in the hydroponics lab two hours ago. She moaned and complained. Ogawa checked her vital signs. Her temperature was very high and Ogawa notified Selar. The Vulcan doctor ignored the woman's grumbling and administered a hypospray. Selar was quick and efficient and Ogawa noted that not a hair on her head seemed to be out of place, though the nurse was certain that she hadn't slept since the virus had first turned up more than two days ago. The Human brushed at the stray hairs on her neck.

The woman's temperature went down and Selar was called away. Ogawa spoke a few words of reassurance to the woman who mumbled back, before leaving her to speak with Nurse Ketchill. They finished comparing notes about which patients still needed to be checked when a new group entered Sickbay.

Doctor Hill and Nurse Varn had just arrived with a stretcher carrying Commander Riker.

The morning passed, the time slipping away like the passage of the ship through space. The subliminal vibration of the vessel around them lingered in the half-waking consciousness of the two on the bed. By noon, Picard came awake, still not feeling entirely well, but somewhat recovered and fully aware that he'd felt much worse the day before. He sat up, careful not to disturb the doctor, got up and went to the lavatory.

Crusher woke. There was something cool and damp on her forehead. Picard smoothed her hair back from the cloth. He had brought the lights up half way and he sat on the edge of the bed next to her. She saw her tricorder in his lap.

_I suppose he knows how to use it._

In fact, she'd watched him run through its basic functions at the last senior officer's first aid review.

"How are you feeling?" he asked, his voice low, his hand still touching her forehead.

"Terrible." Her skin felt hot. Thanks to the durhalin, the nausea had subsided to malaise, but she felt queasy and she couldn't tell if it was just her head that was so stiff and miserably congested or if it was her whole body. She felt-however medically inaccurate that was-as if all the usual wastes and poisons that her body normally generated and excreted were just being stored up inside her. But the cool, damp cloth on her forehead did much to distract from how awful she felt. He brought her a glass of water and that helped, too. She'd done the same for him the day before.

In fact, they seemed to be replaying the previous day, except that their roles were reversed . . . and he'd been lying in his own bed.

_At least I didn't faint on the bridge, like he did._

Feeling tired enough to sleep, she turned over on her side, pulling the blankets around her. The cloth fell away from her forehead.

Picard sat next to Crusher for a time, holding the damp cloth, until he was sure she'd gone back to sleep.

He stood up. A small wave of dizziness hit him, but it quickly passed. He really did feel much, much better. In fact . . .

He went to the far end of the main room, to the replicator, and ordered a light lunch of sandwiches and soup. Turning up only the light above his desk, he examined the ship's status reports while he ate. Seventy-three new cases of the Maluvian virus had been diagnosed that day, bringing the total up to 417 since the virus had first turned up three days ago. The Enterprise was officially under quarantine, which canceled all planned missions for the next two weeks . . . except for stellar mapping and the long range scans of a pair of black holes. Stellar cartography and Astrophysics had between them seven non-human personnel who were immune to the virus and the cosmological phenomena were certainly unaffected by it. Picard scanned some of their preliminary results. Lieutenant Commander Data was in command, Commander Riker having fallen prey to the shipwide illness that morning. The virus didn't like androids, either.

Picard was halfway through an Engineering duty listing, hastily reshuffled for the personnel who were sick, when he paused to rub his eyes. His lunch was mostly eaten, the soup gone and a remaining sandwich corner abandoned on a plate of crumbs. He didn't feel like finishing it. The overhead light seemed too bright by itself in the darkened room, but he didn't want to disturb the doctor by turning up the rest of the lights. He wouldn't have that problem in his ready room . . .

He got up and disposed of the tray and its remains in the replicator. Then, bare feet on the carpet, Picard crept into the bedroom to the drawers at the far end of the room. He felt foolish, sneaking into his own bedroom, as quietly as possible opening drawers and taking out a fresh uniform like a thief stealing valuables. But he didn't want to disturb the doctor.

In the main room he dressed. He hated leaving his pajamas waded up in a chair, but he wasn't going to risk going back into the bedroom. The corridor was empty as he went down to the turbolift. The air outside his quarters smelled different, fresher, but colder. He decided to have maintenance look into it later. Alone in the lift, he straightened his uniform.

Worf was at his post at the tactical station and he was the first person to turn and see him. Klingons couldn't get the virus, either.

"Captain." His security chief straightened. Worf's heavily ridged forehead and dark face made him as imposing as ever, or was that slight lowering of his winged eyebrows suspicion? Picard didn't pause too long to check. Lieutenant Commander Data popped up out of the command chair as soon as Worf spoke.

"Captain," the android addressed him as Picard walked down the ramp to the command area. "I was not aware that you-" Picard raised a hand and Data stopped talking. That was definitely suspicion he could read on the android's pale face.

"I'm just going to my ready room. Carry on, Mr. Data. You have the con." He turned away casually, before Data could ask any annoying questions about him being on the sick list. Data might call Sickbay to check on his duty status, but with so many people out ill, the captain didn't think he would. Picard knew that Worf wouldn't; if the Klingon hadn't been immune, Picard was sure that he'd try to be at his own post anyway.

Instead of going to his desk, the captain sat down on the sofa and leaned back. It felt good. He could feel an almost-headache building up behind his eyes. He cleared his mind and relaxed, alone in his ready room with no one there see him. After a few minutes, he felt better and he got up and went to the replicator for a cup of earl grey, hot. At his desk, he brought the Engineering duty roster up on his screen.

"Try to rest." Deanna Troi brushed Will Riker's bangs back. He grimaced back at her, but closed his blue eyes. She looked down at him, lying on the biobed. All the other biobeds around them in Sickbay had people on them. The room was restless with the unwell and the movements of the people caring for them.

Troi felt Riker's mind drift, half-asleep. His stomach virus wasn't very serious, but he'd had the bad judgment to pass out on the bridge at almost the exact time and place that Captain Picard had the day before. Riker, unfortunately, hadn't been so graceful about it . . . and he'd been too big for Ensign Graadnik to catch when he fell and hit his head. Troi straightened and swept her long, curly dark hair back off her shoulder. Riker was asleep.

Around her, the sights and sounds, and the emotions, of illness pulsed. Troi put a hand to her own forehead. Dr. Hill had determined that her Betazoid heritage had given her immunity from the Maluvian virus, but she was tired from having her empathic senses assaulted by the illness and nausea and general bad humor from the people she cared for as she filled in as medic because there were so many people affected. Troi stretched her neck. The worst was over. The first cases of the virus had already recovered. Only a few more days . . .

"Counselor." Troi turned to Doctor Selar, an island of calm in a room full of sickness. She held out a note padd. "If you could check on these people." Troi took the padd and looked down the list. They were all new cases, who had been diagnosed and treated, but were not serious enough to need to be in an already overcrowded Sickbay. Leeanna Chesi, Lieutenant Barclay, Ensign Thomas, Gordon Al'Abir, Doctor Crusher, Captain Picard . . .

Troi nodded. Selar nodded back and Troi went to get a medical tricorder.

"Damn."

Picard sat back and rubbed the back of his neck and the short hair on the back of his head. He couldn't deny it. His headache was definitely coming back. His stomach wasn't feeling that wonderful either. He yawned and his ears popped and it hurt like a twanging nerve. He looked back at the specs of the new shuttle the Enterprise would be picking up at Starbase 179 in three weeks. He wasn't absorbing any of it. He clicked the screen off.

He glanced at the sofa. Perhaps all he needed was a short rest . . . the memory of the embarrassing scene he'd endured when he'd fainted on the bridge the day before . . . he cut off that train of thought. He stood up, slowly, and straightened his tunic as he walked around his desk. His uniform felt sweaty and confining.

"You have the con, Mister Data," he told his second officer, who had stood up from the command chair as soon as he'd exited his ready room onto the bridge. "I'll be in my quarters."

"Very good, Captain," Data answered to Picard's back as he entered the turbolift.

* * *

**- - - End Part 2**


	3. Chapter 3

**TENDER LOVING CARE **

by ardavenport

* * *

**- - - Part 3**

"Computer, locate Doctor Crusher," Troi said. She was standing in the doctor's empty quarters. All but one of the other names had been checked off on her list.

"Doctor Crusher is in Captain Picard's quarters," the computer voice answered back. Troi stared as if she could stare back at the words she'd just heard. Captain Picard's quarters? The only other name on her list was Captain Picard.

"Computer, locate Captain Picard."

"Captain Picard is in the captain's ready room."

That made sense. Picard was still officially off duty, but that often didn't stop him. But Doctor Crusher in Captain Picard's quarters . . . Smiling, Troi left the doctor's quarters. When she reached Picard's cabin on deck five, she entered without touching the door chime; the door wasn't locked and the counselor didn't want to disturb Crusher. The doctor was asleep in Picard's bed.

Troi turned the lights up half way. Standing by the bed, and with the medical tricorder, she checked Crusher's vital signs. She was sick, but her symptoms weren't severe or unusual. Crusher stirred.

"Beverly . . . ?"

The doctor opened her eyes, wondering who wanted her. She recognized the Betazoid leaning over her immediately. It was her surroundings that she had to think about. She closed her eyes again.

"Oh," the sick woman moaned. Now what was she going to tell Troi? It wasn't that there was anything wrong with her being in Jean-Luc Picard's bed, but she just wasn't up to giving any kind of explanation. Or making one up for an empath who would know it wasn't true anyway.

"I didn't find you in your cabin, and the computer told me you were here." Troi explained cheerfully.

"Oh." She turned her head. The pillow next to her was empty. Crusher lifted her head . . . and then put it back down again, the blood vessels behind her eyes throbbing, her face flushed. She was alone in the bed. "Where...?"

"Uh, the captain's on the bridge," Troi admitted.

"What?" Crusher's voice momentarily gained strength when she heard where Picard had gotten to.

The door to the cabin opened and the guilty party entered the main room. He stood there a moment, obviously surprised by the counselor's presence. Troi stood and let the captain come to her. Behind her, Crusher glared at him. Picard looked down at the tricorder that the Betazoid pointed at him.

"Doctor Selar asked me to check in on you and Doctor Crusher," she explained.

"I see," he replied. The tricorder said that the captain's temperature was up by 0.4 C, that he hadn't eaten anything in the past two hours and that his fluid balance was low. Even without the instrument, Troi could sense that Picard was feeling unwell with the same queasy aura that had filled Sickbay.

"Well," Troi looked him up and down, in his red and black uniform, "I, uh, won't mention your being up to Dr. Selar." Picard silently scowled back at her, tilting his head back . . . as if this threat was supposed to mean something to her. Troi walked past him and out of the room. She sighed when she was in the corridor, out of the immediate range of Picard's anger. By the time she got to the turbolift she was angry back at him. He might think that it was some heroic feat to drag himself to duty on the bridge, but Troi thought it was just stupid. Both Picard and Riker had been so busy denying to themselves that they were ill when they'd first gotten this virus that they had collapsed at their posts. Stupid.

"Deck Ten," she ordered the computer. Well, I'm not the one he has to answer to.

Picard continued glaring at the closed door after Troi had left. Just who did she think she was? The counselor had no authority to say whether he could get up-

"Just what do you think you're doing?" Crusher demanded from the bed. He turned about to her. The doctor, on the other hand . . .

"I was feeling better-"

"Did Selar clear you for duty?" It was not really a question because Crusher knew that Selar wouldn't have done so less than two days after he'd first shown symptoms of the virus.

"I don't think I need to be told when I can go to my own bridge."

"Oh yes you do." She pulled herself up to a half sitting position against the pillows. And then pulled the rumpled blanket up with her. He was not going to get away with standing there, in uniform, in front of her, when she'd spent the previous day ordering dozens of people to rest-no duty, no exertion, no negotiation on the prescription-until they were OK'd by her or one of the other doctors. "In case you hadn't heard, there's an epidemic on this ship and you are not exempt."

"Neither are you." He stepped forward when he saw her close her eyes. Her hair limp, her face flushed, she looked terrible in the room's half light. Her eyes snapped open again when she felt him sit down on the bed next to her.

"We're not talking about me." She felt horrible and hardly rested from her nap; she did not want to fight with him, but he was just not going to get away with quick trips to the bridge before she said he was well.

Picard felt vaguely light-headed, and he was definitely getting a headache; he wanted to go lie down on the couch in the next room, in his own quarters. He laid his hand on hers, attempting to placate his angry medical officer, but she only tensed up. "All right Beverly, I'm not quite feeling as well as I thought. And yes, I'm going to lie down-"

"After you get out of uniform." She was not going to let him lie down for a few minutes until he was feeling better, and then sneaking off to the bridge again.

That was just too much for him. "I don't need a nursemaid. And you're certainly not up to the task anyway."

"Or maybe you do need one after all, if you can't follow your doctor's orders."

"You're not in any position to give me any orders, Doctor."

"Well, I'm sure Selar is." She was on the verge of calling Dr. Selar and having her confine him to Sickbay, but a sliver of common sense told her not to push it that far . . . not unless he did first. He looked back at her angrily in the dimly lit room, his face one whole shadow. Her stomach quivered with the tension-or nausea-and her back was starting to hurt from her half-sitting position. "Jean-Luc," she said in a much quieter tone. "One of the symptoms of this Maluvian virus is fainting. I'm sure you know all about that," she reminded him of the previous day's embarrassment on the bridge.

He sat back and tugged at the hem of his tunic, straightening it. "Yesterday, you said it was an early symptom-"

"It can happen any time. Now get out of that uniform." She nudged herself a little higher-it was hard arguing with him from a semi-recline-and thought about fainting herself.

"Beverly," he said in a conciliatory tone; he wasn't up to fighting with her, but he did not want to undress and climb back into bed...with her still in it. The familiarity of the act made him wordlessly uncomfortable...along with his emerging headache. "I'm going to lie down in the next room-"

Crusher moaned, her head falling forward. She felt a touch on her shoulder, and then his arm slid behind her, supporting her. For a moment, she didn't feel anything, her vision clouded to a dim, non-glow of nothing and she couldn't tell whether she was falling or sitting or lying down. The non-glow faded and melted into dimly lit red fabric against her cheek. His hand stroked the loose, clinging strands of her hair away from her face and neck. Her body felt hot and the air around her was cold. She shivered. He was warm.

"Ssssst." She started at the sound and feel of the hypospray at her neck. Where did that come from...?

Crusher went limp. Picard and Selar eased her back onto the bed and covered her. Her hair spread out on the pillow as if she were floating. Selar passed her scanner over the other physician.

"She should rest quietly for the remainder of the day." Selar had already told Picard, without questioning why it would have happened, that Crusher's fainting spell had probably been brought on by overexertion. After tending to the woman on the bed, the Vulcan turned back to Picard, her scanner pointed at him. A little taller than the captain, she looked down at his boots and then up at his eyes.

"I prescribe rest for you as well, Captain. You are still suffering from the same virus." Her dark eyes flicked up and down his uniform again, clearly disapproving. "I will see you and Doctor Crusher tomorrow morning. I will evaluate you for fitness for duty then." Picard silently accepted her verdict. There was absolutely no point in arguing with the Vulcan's logic, especially after this near crisis with Beverly Crusher. Selar nodded,, equally silent, accepting his compliance and left.

Picard let out a long sigh after she was gone. Selar had given him something for his headache, and he felt considerably less unwell, but he didn't feel that much healthier. He looked down at Crusher and then went to the bureau and took out a pair of pajamas. In the lavatory, he contacted Data on the bridge, but the ship was perfectly normal, cruising at warp three toward Starbase 119. Nothing demanded his attention there. After changing, he went back to the bed and sat down. The room was so quiet that he could hear her breathing. More than a third of the ship was down with this damned virus now. Sickbay was crowded and busy with caring for the worst cases. Yet here, he felt it so easy to imagine that they were the only two people on the ship.

"Computer, turn down the lights." The room faded into total shadow.

He brought a separate blanket that he spread out on his side of the bed and then pulled it around him as he lay on his side, facing Crusher. He wasn't really very tired now that Selar had relieved the worst of his ills. He could see her woman's shape, her shadowy outline in the bluish glow from the light panels by the view ports. Picard thought about how he'd lain ill the day before, in the same bed. He had furiously wanted to be alone, as if solitude could have made the illness pass quicker. When Crusher had visited him, he'd always felt bothered and put out by her arrival and he had let her know it. But he would feel better after she tended him and regretted seeing her walk out the door.

Now the doctor was having her day. He closed his eyes and listened to the subtle sounds and smells of the other person laying next to him. And tomorrow . . . ? he wondered.

Alissa Ogawa strolled down the corridor, a medical tricorder with scanner in hand. She approached her destination with increasing apprehension. When Selar had given her the assignment of checking on Doctor Crusher for the evening, she'd been delighted. The staff in Sickbay had been speculating all day on the prospect of Crusher lying ill in Picard's cabin. How could there not be something between Picard and Crusher if they were sharing the same sick bed? Or was he sleeping on the sofa? Did she faint in his arms? Doctor Selar and Counselor Troi were the only two who had been to the captain's cabin and neither one of them had said a word about anything other than their physical condition. But Troi's smile when Nurse Gordon had casually mentioned it had hinted that she thought that Picard and Crushers' situation was good for them . . . or perhaps just amusing to the counselor.

Ogawa turned the corner and approached the captain's door. Someone else passed her in the hall and she noticed that the woman glanced back over her shoulder. Of course, if Sickbay was full of the news, then the entire ship would know where Crusher was staying. Ogawa stopped in front of the door, squared her shoulders and pressed the door chime.

A moment passed before the door opened.

Picard stood in the doorway.

Suddenly confronted with Picard, Ogawa shyly looked down. And then quickly looked back up again. He was barefoot and wearing very, very short pajamas.

"Uh, Captain." The gray robe he was wearing over the pajamas was totally superfluous,since it didn't cover a single square centimeter of skin left bare by the pajamas, which had a V-neck that plunged down almost to his navel. "Doctor Selar sent me to see how you and . . . Doctor Crusher were doing."

"Hmm." Ogawa bit her lower lip while the captain frowned, stood aside and let her pass. The main room was large and dark except for a light over the desk upon which were a several note pads. The captain's quarters were not much larger than the windowless ones that Ogawa shared with her husband, but the layout was different. The room was longer, the corners darker and the bedroom door was to her right.

Crusher lay in the bed, asleep. Ogawa turned up the lights part way. The doctor didn't stir while her head nurse stood over her with the scanner and compared the readings with Selar's, taken earlier. Beverly Crusher had an utterly average case of the Maluvian virus. Ogawa logged the readings, which the tricorder automatically forwarded to the ship's medical files. She turned around to scan Picard and almost ran into him. He'd crept up behind her, apparently to look over her shoulder. Picard looked down at her while she reset the scanner and aimed it at him. Ogawa kept her eyes on the scanner. When she lowered it, she glanced at Crusher and he nodded and they left the bedroom to let her rest.

"Doctor Crusher should be fine in a day or so, and you should be fine in the morning. Doctor Selar would like to see you in Sickbay then. I'm sure she will clear you for duty then." Nurse Ogawa tried adding something positive, but it had no effect on the captain's severe expression. She nodded quickly, lowered her eyes again and took a step toward the door.

"I've seen in the ship's reports that the epidemic is receding." Picard's tone was conversational, not matching his grim expression at all.

"Uh, yes. We only had fifty-three cases. Doctor Erin, our virologist, has recovered and thinks that this will have run its course in a couple days." Should she mention the decontamination procedures to ensure that they didn't carry the Maluvian virus all over the galaxy? Ogawa wondered. Should she mention Starfleet Medical's quarantine on the ship, and that they would have to rendezvous with a medical ship in the next week to verify that the virus had been eliminated? The nurse was uncertain of how to reply to a grim faced commanding officer who suddenly seemed to want to make small talk. Picard nodded in response.

"How are Commander Riker and Commander LaForge?"

"Oh, Commander LaForge is doing much better. He should be released from Sickbay tomorrow. Commander Riker is doing a little better, but he still isn't feeling well." Picard didn't look back at her as she spoke. His mind obviously on his own thoughts, he looked forward at nothing in particular, as if he were listening to her voice over the conn. After a long pause, he noticed that she wasn't talking anymore.

"Thank-you Nurse." He nodded toward her and Ogawa took her cue to leave. Once out in the brightly lit corridor she felt able to think again. That had been the one and only time she'd ever been to the captain's cabin and the only impression she had of it was of dimly lit rooms with stuffed furniture exactly like what she had in her own quarters and lots of plants by the view ports. Ogawa had been hoping that Picard wouldn't be there for some reason so she could have a few words with Crusher alone.

Ogawa reached the turbolift and smiled to herself. Crusher would still be down with the virus tomorrow and there was every reason to expect Picard to be recovered enough to be on duty. Perhaps tomorrow...

Jean-Luc Picard sat at his desk and looked down at his work; three log reports from Commander Data, a digest of the journal publications from the sciences sections for the past two months, the communications logs between the Enterprise and Starfleet Medical about the Maluvian virus and a manifest list for everything they'd picked up at Starbase 219 four weeks ago. But Ogawa's visit had broken his concentration and he didn't feel like finishing any of it. None of it couldn't wait until morning.

And you are just stalling . . .

He got up, turned down the light in the main room, went into the bedroom, silently padding past the bed and into the lavatory. When he finished there, he stepped out, turning the light off behind him. He didn't need the light. The glow panels by the ports were enough to see by and he knew his way perfectly well. He carefully lay down on the bed and covered himself with his own blanket.

"Huh?" He heard Crusher stir, felt her movement pull on the sheets under him.

"Sorry, I didn't mean to wake you." For a moment there was only silence from her side of the bed, and then there was a moan. "Are you feeling any better?"

"Uh. Well, I don't feel like throwing up right now. I suppose that's better," her weary voice answered him in the gloom.

"Can I get you anything?" he offered.

More sounds of movement. "No." Heavy breathing. "I have to get up." He sat up with her, his hand finding her arm in the dark.

"Computer, half lights," Picard ordered. He helped her up and went with her to the lavatory. She closed the door in his face.

When she was finished, he was still waiting for her. She'd half hoped that he would have gone back to bed. He put his arm around her. She didn't really need the support, but couldn't just push him away. All she felt like doing was crawling back into bed before a headache or nausea had a chance to develop. She felt halfway normal, after her long rest, but nowhere near well. The last thing she wanted to deal with was having Picard fussing over her.

After she lay down, he went back to his side of the bed. He carefully slid under his blanket. He stared straight up at the ceiling and studied the shadows there. Crusher turned over and he stopped himself from looking in her direction. He closed his eyes. If he could just get a good night's rest, then he could be well enough to return to duty tomorrow morning. He spent the next twenty minutes reminding himself of that before he finally fell asleep.

* * *

**- - - End Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**TENDER LOVING CARE**

by ardavenport

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**- - - Part 4**

Graz Waas stood with two Enterprise crew members, waiting his turn. Waas had thought that getting to Sickbay early, to get cleared for duty, would be the best way of avoiding having to wait in an overcrowded Sickbay for attention. But obviously, the others that waited with him, and the others who had gone before him had thought the same thing. Waas looked down at the top of a light colored-haired nurse who passed them in the main examination room that they waited to enter. It was Waas's turn next.

A door opened. The movement of the Enterprise crew members alerted Waas to the new arrival. Waas looked down at the smooth head of the ship's captain. The small human glanced at the others and then at Waas's middle. Then his eyes flicked up at Waas's. It was very challenging for Waas to read their intentions, these Humans, their silent facial movements, the unconscious expressions of their body.

The captain was ill; he will be here to be examined as we are.

The two crew members had stepped back only a few centimeters, a tiny gesture. The captain turned his head toward the examination room.

These humans have a pack mentality. Waas lowered his head

and looked away from the examination room, as if in disinterest. The captain went in.

The stances of the crew members became more fluid, as they had been before the captain had entered. One of them curled her lips up at Waas and Waas, quite satisfied with his interpretation of their body language, returned the gesture and continued to wait.

Alissa Ogawa entered the captain's cabin. The door wasn't locked. The captain was on the bridge. Ogawa had checked before going to look in on Crusher.

Doctor Crusher was in the bed. When Ogawa sat down next to her, she opened her eyes, moaned and put her hand to her forehead.

"Feeling any better, Doctor?"

"Unh...maybe." Her arm flopped back down to her side. "Maybe not." She remained silent, her eyes closed, while Ogawa scanned her vital signs. The tricorder at least said that she was better, even if she didn't feel that way. She looked older, worn, and her fiery red hair was a rust-colored mess around her on the pillow.

"How's everyone else doing?" Crusher asked when her nurse had finished.

"Well, we only had seven new cases this morning. Doctor Selar thinks that the virus is burning itself out."

"Not soon enough for me." Crusher sighed and opened her eyes, looking around her at the room she lay in. "I'll bet they can't stop talking about us down in Sickbay." Ogawa didn't need to ask who the 'us' was that Crusher referred to.

"Well...a little." the younger woman answered, shy of admitting how much gossip was actually going around.

"Unh." Crusher closed her eyes and turned her head away, her body shifting under the rumpled covers. Uncertain of whether or not she should lead, Ogawa slowly closed up the tricorder. The one time she had ever mentioned to her superior that she and Captain Picard might have a relationship, she'd gotten a cold brush off. They'd been talking about couples in general, just idle chat when no one was in Sickbay and Ogawa had mentioned the possibility. Crusher's reaction had been so abrupt that Ogawa, or anyone else in Sickbay, had never mentioned the subject to the chief medical officer again. But the talk still persisted, especially now.

Ogawa was just about to get up when Crusher turned back to her.

"I don't suppose anyone would believe me if I said that I almost fainted and the only place to fall down on was the captain's bed?"

"They might." Ogawa shrugged and smiled, trying to be positive.

"Yeah." Crusher looked away again.

"is there anything you'd like to talk about?" Ogawa cautiously asked. Crusher turned back, scowling, but Ogawa's expression was perfectly innocent. Crusher sighed.

"You know you get used to not being with someone for a long time . . . " Crusher began. She ran her hand through her hair, finger-combing the unwashed stands back. " . . . You don't want to risk going too far, when it's safer to stay away."

Ogawa looked down at her small hands, folded on her knees. "You don't think it would work out?"

"I don't know." Beverly Crusher contemplated the ceiling . . . of his cabin. "I just never seriously thought it was possible; that there was too much between us already." She pulled back her hair again. "I just can't see what would happen past the first night."

"Well, what would you like to happen?"

Crusher paused, as if she hadn't considered whether her own desires would affect the outcome . . . because she hadn't.

"I don't know. But it's hard for me to imagine Jean-Luc as a live-in. He's practically a hermit sometimes." Crusher glanced toward the empty side of the bed. Picard had taken his own blanket and neatly folded it in the place where he'd been lying the night before. "But I don't want what we already have to change. I just don't want to risk losing that if it doesn't work out."

Ogawa had no reply to offer. She really wasn't sure just what Picard and Crusher might have between them now. All she knew was idle speculation. Ogawa glanced about the bedroom, the captain's bedroom, while Crusher stared up at the ceiling. Ogawa had never really thought about Picard doing ordinary things like sleeping at night . . . or having a lover who was someone she knew.

"Maybe you should give it a little more time," she finally suggested, after Crusher had been silent for a long time. The doctor seemed to find that amusing.

"Time's about the only thing I've been giving it." Crusher looked down at the wrinkled sheets covering her, her toes poking out from under them. She was lying in a strange bed, but it didn't feel like that to her; it felt . . . comfortable.

"Well, I'd better be going. We've still got a lot of people to take care of in Sickbay," Alissa Ogawa said. Crusher looked up at her. The smaller woman stood up to leave.

"Alissa." Ogawa paused. "Thanks."

Not knowing at all which thing she might have said had turned out to be so helpful, Ogawa smiled back. "Any time, Doctor. And if there's anything else I can do for you . . . "

Crusher started to say 'no', but then looked down at the material of the stale, wrinkled green tunic covering her.

"Actually, Alissa, there is something you could do . . . "

Picard entered his cabin. The lights were up in the main room and Beverly Crusher was curled up on the sofa. Picard crossed the room and looked down at her. Her red hair was spread out over a fresh pair of powder blue pajamas whose long sleeves and pant legs covered her entirely. He sat down on the sofa next to her, his hand brushing her cheek.

"Hey." She stirred and looked up at him.

"Oh." She sat up and he slid his arm around her shoulders. "Sorry, I got up and had something to eat. I thought about going back to my own quarters, but stopped here to rest." Picard looked at the dining table. She'd left all her dishes and the remains of her meal out.

Crusher ran her hand through her hair, pulling it away from her face. She hadn't really combed it for two days. She'd thought about taking a shower when she'd changed and now she regretted that she hadn't. She closed her eyes and rested her head on his shoulder. She could feel the twinge of a headache starting. Picard didn't say anything, but he adjusted his arm to accommodate her. I really shouldn't do this, she thought. It was much too comfortable to lean on him. A warm touch, another body to lie next to, to lean on, had it really been so long? she wondered. Did I just forget what this was like?

She felt a touch at the top of her head, a warm breath. Crusher opened her eyes. She felt it again. He's got his nose in my hair. He wasn't doing anything else, but she almost lifted her arm to put it around his waist. No, I can't. I feel like hell. Another breath warmed her hair. Gods, I should have washed it.

"Hey." He pulled away from her. "Maybe you should go back to bed. Get some rest."

"Don't I usually say that?"

"Hmph." They got up together. A sudden wave of dizziness made her pause and he tightened his grip on her.

"It's all right; I'm all right." She took a deep breath...and another, and the dizziness passed. He kept a firm grip on her all the way to the bedroom where she crawled into bed, pulling the sheets up around her.

"Computer, lights." The computer turned down the lights in response to his command. She lay curled up, eyes closed, her face sunken into the pillow. His hand lightly touched her. "I'll be back in a few hours." His voice was close, as if he were bending over her.

"Hmm." She heard walk away, his step hardly audible. Moments later, she heard the door opened and closed.

"Uh, Life Support Maintenance still has six people out with the virus, sir." Picard accepted the note padd from Ensign Glass. A tall, think, dark man, he almost stood at attention as Picard read the information he had compiled for his captain. Picard was beginning to wonder if the junior officers hadn't been running amok while the senior officers had been out sick. Glass was the third nervous ensign he had come across that afternoon. But no, they couldn't have been up to anything because Data and Worf hadn't fallen ill.

Picard handed back the note padd, his nod dismissing the junior officer. But now that he thought about it, Data and Worf had given him a few nervous looks as well. The captain turned toward his ready room to use the lavatory there.

After finishing, Picard washed his hands and gave a cursory glance at his appearance in the mirror. His eyes focused on his left shoulder and he reached up and pulled a long, red hair off of the black material there. There were two more still clinging to him. It had been an hour since he'd left Beverly Crusher in his quarters and he'd visited Engineering and the Astrophysics Lab before returning to the bridge. He'd just assumed that those hesitant looks he'd been getting were from people wondering if he was well; he knew that the story of his fainting spell on the bridge two days ago would have traversed the ship many times.

But that hadn't been the reason at all. And now there would be new stories circulating in the ship's rumor mill. Picard grimaced and removed the remaining hairs, and checked himself carefully for any more. He plucked another one off of the back of his collar and put it with the others in the disposal. He sighed and left the lavatory and wondered if he would have felt more or less annoyed if there really was anything for the ship's gossip to be based upon.

Crusher sat on the sofa in Picard's quarters and looked out the view port. Still wearing her pajamas, she toyed with a long, olive-colored leaf of one of the small array of plants behind the back of the sofa. When did Jean-Luc take care of all these plants? There were even more of them in the bedroom. They were all real. She had a spindly flower bush that she regularly trimmed and couple of vines, but that was it.

Doctor Selar had left a half an hour ago. Or was it an hour now? One advantage to being Chief Medical Officer was that she could have one of her doctors come to her. The stomach virus had run it's course. She was cleared for duty . . . for the next morning. But she still had the evening to herself.

The door to the cabin opened. Picard entered and then stopped, the door shushing closed behind him. Crusher uncurled her long legs from under her and he walked around the low table next to the sofa to sit next to her.

"Feeling better?" She nodded.

"Yeah." She didn't say anything more, he didn't say anything back, until...

"Well, I suppose you'll be able to return to duty."

"Uh, yes, uh, tomorrow morning." He looked down at his knees, his hands on them. She looked down at her lap.

"Well, I suppose now you'd like to . . . uh, have dinner." Crusher looked at him. He had his hands gripping his knees, his shoulders hunched forward a bit like how sat in his command chair during a tense confrontation.

"Uh, well, I had a snack a little while ago. I'm not very hungry." His eyes went past her toward the dining table. At least she'd put the dishes away this time.

"Oh," he replied. Long silence.

"I, uh, wanted to thank you for . . . nursing me through it." Picard turned to see her smiling at him.

"It wasn't anything you'd already done for me," he answered her with his own half-smile.

"Well, that's my job, Jean-Luc."

"Is that all it was? Just your duty?" She took a deep breath.

"No. Not...just," she admitted without looking back at him. She exhaled and leaned back on the sofa. "They're talking about us, you know."

"I know." He unconsciously brushed at the shoulder of his uniform.

"Think there's anything for them to talk about?"

He started at the meaning of her question and looked back at her over his shoulder. She lowered her eyes at him, her shoulders nestled into the sofa cushions. He leaned back slowly.

"I was wondering that myself." Their shoulders touched, the thin blue cloth of her pajamas pressed next to the heavy black and red of his uniform. But he kept his hands in his lap. Her head dropped and she laid it against him, her red hair falling down over his shoulder and over her eyes. She reached up and pulled it away from her face. His hand caught hers as she lowered it.

"Beverly . . . is there anything?" She sighed, his large hand enfolding hers.

"I think so," she finally admitted. His arm slid around behind her, his hand released hers and a second later it caressed her neck, rising to her chin and lifting her face to his. Their lips touched.

She finally broke the kiss and nuzzled his cheek. His arms circled her; she was pressed up to him. She pulled away from him a bit.

"I'm sorry, Jean-Luc. I'm not up for anything tonight." She didn't feel ill anymore, but she still felt lethargic, worn out.

He nuzzled her cheek. "It's all right." He pulled her toward him and leaned back. She tried to catch herself from falling forward, not sure what he was doing. His legs slid under hers and when they settled down, they were both stretched out on the sofa together, his arm around her. Her head rested on his shoulder. She tugged her hair free when he accidentally trapped it, pulling it the wrong way.

She closed her eyes and a moment later she felt his hand stroking her hair. She sighed. Now, if I can just think of what we're going to do tomorrow morning . . .

* * *

***** *** END *** *****

* * *

**Note:** This story was written by me and first printed (under the name 'Anne Davenport') in 1995, in Involution 7, a fanzine back in the hard-copy and snail-mail days of fan-fiction, before the internet really took off.

**Disclaimer:** All Trek characters and the universe belong to Paramount; I m just playing in that sandbox.


End file.
